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Posts Tagged ‘travel erotica’

Another One Rides the Bus

This time of year everything is decorated with brightly coloured tinsel and fairy lights, Christmas music blares from every shop and every street corner and the town centres are transformed to a hive of frenetic activity. On the other hand the days are short and the nights are long, the weather is bleak and the natural world seems dead all around us. All that hurts, all that aches, all that’s raw stands out in stark contrast against the bright lights and frenzy. Sometimes though, there are moments that break through the tinsel and the music and the commercialism, moments that stand out as true magic in the space between the celebrations and the sorrow.

12340460-urban-sketch-sign-with-image-bus-stop-and-manI had one of those moments yesterday. I was coming home from town and the downpour that had started about the time I left the house had me drenched to the skin. The wind was just strong enough to make my umbrella worthless. I decided to take the bus home. Sadly, as is often the case when the weather’s bad, the busses were late and the one I usually take was broken down, so I knew it would be at least three quarters of an hour before another one arrived. I decided to take a bus that has a similar rout, if a little circuitous, one I’d never taken before. Bus number 10 was filled by the overflow from the busses that had been delayed or just not come at all, and the poor driver was a bearded man who looked slightly panicked. There was good reason for his nerves. He had just finished his training and because there was some shortage of drivers, he suddenly found himself thrown in at the deep end, driving a route with which he was unfamiliar, one that took him through some of the most narrow, winding streets of town.

I nearly got off and in favour of braving the rain and walking on home anyway, but I stayed, perched on the edge of my seat, wondering if I’d made a mistake. The first bit of the journey was through the main streets, so that was easy enough, even for the newbie driver. But as he headed off into the bowels of the town on streets that were barely wide enough for a car, let alone a bus, something amazing happened. Someone up front said. ‘Just turn left here, and you’ll see the bus stop just up the road there. See it?’

The driver thanked the passenger and made the first stop. Then the road got properly narrow and I could almost hear everyone holding their breath as the poor driver maneuvered the hulk of a bus, with windows threatening to steam over, between two tight rows of cars on either side of the street. I closed my eyes and held my breath. I think I wasn’t alone in this act. But the driver had been trained well, and once we were through the obstacle course unscathed, there was a collective sigh of relief and a murmur of encouragement to the driver as another woman took up the role of satnav directing the driver to the next stop.

By this time, I had no idea where we were, as this was not my normal route. I was totally dependent on the collective navigation skills of the 10034270-london-england-dawn-breaking-over-the-city-of-westminster-with-the-clock-tower-of-big-ben-over-the-lother passengers, who were now in open conversation, guiding the driver to take a right at the next intersection, go straight to the top of the hill, then take a left, encouraging him, telling him he was doing just fine.

By the time we got to my stop, there were only a few people left on the bus and the driver’s route back to the main station was a relatively straight shot. Everyone who got off the bus thanked him and encouraged him, and I realized what I’d seen was a bright spot in a dark day. It had been a time when we could all have been grumpy and short. But everyone had to work together if anyone were to get home. And when I got off the bus back into the pouring rain, I felt a lot more cheerful and a little more immuned to the dark day.

Because busses are on my mind, I’m sharing a hot little short story with you about a bus ride with a little extra. The story is vintage KDG and shared in its entirety. Enjoy!

The Night Bus

9522133-vienna-austria--december-09-vienna--empty-bus-stop-in-viennas-first-district-by-night-on-december-09I boarded the coach and made my way toward the back squinting in the darkness.  It was the 01:30 to Zagreb coming up from Dubrovnik.  The few people already on board were contortionists attempting futilely to transform coach seats into beds.  I found a place and stowed my bag, sorry to be leaving the sea, but looking forward to time with friends in Zagreb before returning to London.  With my head leaning against the window, I watched as the village lights faded.  The man behind me groaned softly and shifted in the unforgiving seat.  His movement stirred the scent of sandalwood and something more earthy masking the prevailing odours of motor oil and stale summer sweat.

The exotic smell only enhanced my agenda for the journey.  I planned to come.  I have my reasons for travelling by coach whenever possible.  I long ago discovered that if I position my bottom just right while on a bus, I can come with no further stimulation than the vibration of the engine through the seat, a feat I can’t quite manage on any other mode of transport, though I have tried.

My favourite ‘sex with a stranger’ fantasy combined with the delectable thrumming beneath my pussy were just beginning to work their magic when I felt a hand on the back of my arm rest near the window.  Fellow travellers sometimes violate personal space in search of the ever-elusive cat-nap.  At least the man wasn’t snoring or drooling on my shoulder.  He sighed deeply and slid his arm farther up the rest between my seat and the window, between my arm and my body.  I could have pushed him away, but the heat I was already generating made his closeness intriguing.

His head now rested against the corner of the back of my seat and the window, close enough I could hear his breath. He was awake.  I struggled to keep my own breathing slow and even.  He shifted again cautiously, no doubt trying not to wake me.  I felt an almost imperceptible touch next to my T-shirt close to my ribs, a touch that made my snatch even hotter against the seat.  There he paused, perhaps for courage, then his hand migrated upward snaking hypnotically, fingers curving furtively to cup my breast.

My heart pounded in my chest, which no doubt, he could feel, and I noticed he was feeling me rather nicely.  This was too good to be true. Was I dreaming, or had fantasy suddenly become reality?  I feigned a sleepy sigh and squirmed closer allowing him easier access, rhythmically contracting the right muscles to intensify the delicious friction growing between my legs.

Brazenly he raked a thumb over my swollen nipple, which was already transmitting seismic tremors to my cunt.  I wasn’t lacking in the curve 10519350-light-trails-from-a-bus-passing-st-pauldepartment.  My breasts often got admiring glances.  They were full and heavy and very sensitive.  In fact, they were one of my favourite sex toys.  I played with them often, and the shadowy night bus was the perfect place for it.  This, however, was the first time anyone had kindly aided me in my covert self-pleasuring.

With my other hand, I reached beneath my T-shirt and tugged at the clasp of my front-loader releasing the full weight of my breasts for playtime.  Then I took the initiative, guiding my admirer’s hand and sliding it under my T-shirt until we were feeling me up together, stroking my breast and pearl-hard nipple with maddening, crotch-drenching friction.  I could imagine the overworked fly of his trousers struggling to contain him.  I could almost sense his growing urge to thrust, and I wondered if maybe he’d already released his cock into his other hand, a thought which made me even wetter.

I could feel the distended ache of my opening pressed hard against the frustration of knickers and jeans.  Desperate for more than the vibration of the engine to accompany my travelling companion’s kneadings, I was just about to undo my zipper for a more direct approach when, without warning, all stroking stopped.  He pulled away so quickly that I bit back a frustrated curse.  I wasn’t finished!  Had he come already?  Because if he had, I would strangle him.

I needn’t have worried.  There was a slight shuffling accompanied by a rush of pheromones, and the seat next to me was suddenly occupied.  I caught the flash of his eyes in the light of a passing car.  Windblown hair brushed the collar of his shirt, now untucked and unbuttoned.  I got a mouth-watering glimpse of dark nipples and pectorals above a hard slope of belly and a soft down of hair disappearing into the partially-open bulge of his jeans.  I barely managed a yummy feel before he shoved my T-shirt up, slumped in the seat and began to nurse, taking each of my tits in turn.  I gnawed my lower lip to keep from crying out, sliding my hand over his slender hip and into the back of his jeans to fondle the mounded cheeks of his ass, mesmerized as they tensed, relaxed then tensed again with my caressing.

Bashing his elbow on the seat in front of him, he grabbed my hand and guided it to his desperately straining bulge, holding me hard against him, as he tongued tight circles around my impressionable areole.  While his mouth did its magic, he opened my zipper, feeling his way adroitly inside my knickers and sliding eager fingers between the slick folds and valleys of my cunt, spreading liquid heat over my clit with experienced stroking.  What were the odds of encountering a man on the night bus who knew how to work the joy spot?

With little effort on my part, his cock practically split a seam escaping.  I cupped taut balls that felt heavy and full before he guided my 10051390-bus-stop-sign-on-post-pole-traffic-road-roadsign-blue-isolated-signagewandering hand back to his thick erection.  He tightened my grip with his own until the pressure was just what he needed, until my knuckles ached from the squeeze.  When my method was satisfactory, he rocked against me with tight, controlled thrusts, invisible in the darkness, his body pressing so hard against the seat that I feared he’d break it.  I opened my legs as far as space would allow sliding down low, wriggling until my jeans and knickers were around my hips and I could feel cool night air against my engorged pussy as I rammed myself repeatedly against the wet dance of his fingers.

I’m sure we stopped breathing completely as we rode the edge between pleasure and release until it was so thin, so taut that melt-down was inevitable.  Just as my orgasm exploded with an intensity I’m sure must have rocked the whole coach, he grunted and convulsed.  Warm, viscous semen flooded my hand and spurted the back of the seat in front of us.

It seemed as though we drifted in a semi-comatose afterglow for eons, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.  Finally, he slid his hand from between my legs and licked my juices from his fingers as though I were his favourite flavour.  From somewhere, he managed a handkerchief, which I took, wiping him while he watched.

We’d only just gotten cleaned up and tucked back into our clothes when the bus pulled to a stop at some unnamed village en route.  He stood slowly and grabbed a rucksack from the rack above.  As he turned to go, he dropped a warm kiss on my cheek and disappeared into the night.  Several other people got off, then the bus continued on its way.  Just before I drifted off to sated sleep, basking in the lingering scent of sex and sandalwood, I found myself wondering if I could trade in my plane ticket, if just maybe it were possible to take a coach from Zagreb to Calais and catch a ferry to London.

 

Sharazade Breaks the Language Barrier with A Skiff of Snow

I’m chuffed to bits to have my dear friend and fab writer, Sharazade on Hopeful Romantic today. I would love to offer her a proper British welcome, but since I’m not totally British and definitely not proper, I’ll just say what a pleasure it is to have her sharing the story behind her fun and sexy new story, A Skiff of Snow. A story that has a very special meaning to me. Take it away, Sharazade!

Quite some time ago I blogged about the importance of Facebook for writers as a place to make friends (post is here: http://sharazade.com/?cat=31). One of the erotica writer friends I made there was none other than KD Grace, whom I later had the pleasure of actually meeting at a writer’s conference. But even before that, we posted and chatted happily to each other on Facebook about this and that.

One day, she made a remark about expecting “a skiff of snow.” Now, to an American—or at least, to this American—a “skiff” is a sort of boat. I therefore expected that a “skiff of snow” would be a boatload of the white stuff. However, apparently to people living in the area of England that KD now calls home, a “skiff of snow” is a light dusting. So we talked about that, and then about other American/British terms that are different. KD also mentioned getting a delivery from her local milkman—a service that has all but died out in the US, as private dairies are forced out of business by regulations and rising costs. So that too fed into our discussion of cultural differences, and in a rash move, I said that if I were to write an erotica story about cultural differences, I’d put in a hot delivery man in it and call it A Skiff of Snow, and dedicate it to KD Grace.

Well. I think that was two years ago? Something like that. I am not the world’s fastest writer of fiction. But I really did write the story of the American girl Miranda, who travels to England, battles with vocabulary differences, and—of course—meets a hot delivery guy.

I find travel both intimidating and liberating. Even in a country that almost shares a common language with your own, it’s not that hard to make a fool of yourself. And yet, there’s a freedom in your relative anonymity too. No one knows you; you have no history. You’re freer to take chances. And so my Miranda, even while tripping over herself, has the guts to keep trying until she finally gets her man.

In this excerpt, from her attempt to buy a ticket at Waterloo station, you can tell she’s not quite there yet:

* * *
The line wasn’t long, actually, but it moved very slowly. People seemed to spend a long time at the window. Well, that would suit me just fine. If I got the right window. I looked around a bit at the other people in line. How unfair—there were attractive men all around me, actually. As there had been all over London. But how to meet one? I mean, how to really meet one? How did you start? I could strike up conversations about the weather or the time and ask directions, and I’d done all those things, but there never came a point when I could say, “Excuse me, but I’d like to have a fling.” I suppose I could have tried—but I wouldn’t want them to think I was that kind of girl. (Even if I kind of was.)

I turned a corner in the queue-line and could see the male agent again. Maybe about 30 or 35, brown mussed hair, and blue eyes. And … a blue uniform. What is it about men in uniforms? OK, I know selling train tickets isn’t quite the same as being in the RAF, but … it still looked hot. Trust me. I imagined his arms around me as I played with his gold buttons, teasing him a little.

Back up. I’d have to get there first. But at least here I’d have an excuse to make some conversation. I’d ask for my ticket, see, and he’d note the destination, and mention that he was going there anyway, to … to stay with his aunt, or something … and … he’d sort of hint around to make sure I was single, and then we’d arrange to meet up, and …

Another male agent walked behind him. Yes! Two agents! Both of whom had the night off! And would want to show an American around. And we’d wind up back at their apartment – I mean their flat – and one would stand behind me, holding my arms at my side, kissing my neck at just that spot. Then the other one would step up to me, and say

“Cashier number five, please. Cashier number five,” came the announcement for me. I was almost afraid to check—but it was! It was his window!

I was probably more flustered now by the station agent than I would have been by the damn ticket machine. OK, Randie, calm down. You can do this. Talk to the nice man without drooling.

I sort of gawped at him. I couldn’t remember what to ask for. “Um, I need a ticket…”

“Single?”

What the hell? That was pretty forward! I blushed. He’d skipped about six steps of my planned dialogue, but … I could roll with it.
“Yes, I am. Just out of a relationship, actually … ” (Well, so he wouldn’t think I was some sort of loser nobody wanted to date.)

“I mean for the ticket. A single or a return?”

Oh god. Right. The ticket. I didn’t know how to answer the question, though. I had to settle for staring blankly. Return? Did that mean refundable?

“One-way, or round-trip?”

Right – duh. I should have been able to figure that one out, but I’d been too distracted by his uniform. Good thing he also spoke American. But now I was not only not getting a date – probably – I was totally embarrassed.

“Round trip, please.”

“Certainly. Where to?”

What? Oh … was he hoping to meet me after all? “Well … to here, of course.” I sort of half-winked at him and gave him my most enticing smile.
“Yes, but … ” Was that a small sigh? “But what city did you want to go to, so that you could come back here from it?”
Oh god. Oh god. I’m such a dope. I will never, ever buy a ticket from a man in a uniform again.

“Woking.”

A definite sigh this time. “Not walking, love. Where do you want to ride to, on the train?” Like he was talking to a three-year-old.
Oh god oh god oh god. Even the “love” didn’t help. How the hell did you pronounce that name? I tried again.
“Woaking? Wooking?” Why wouldn’t it be wok, like the Chinese dish?

I showed it to him on my little map.

“Oh… Woking,” he said – exactly the same way I’d said it. At least I think. My face was flame red. I considered changing my ticket to a one-way – dammit, a single – so I would never have to face him again, broad-shoulders-in-a-uniform or not. Thank goodness I didn’t have to give him my name in order to get the ticket. (And he didn’t say anything about going there himself, or having the night off. He probably didn’t even have an aunt.)

* * *

When Miranda meets the right man in the right way, though, they find that they share a common language after all. This one’s for you, KD!

Thank you for this, Sharazade! It’s the first time I’ve ever had a story written for me! It’s a fab tale, and what fun it was being a part of the discussion leading to it! KDx

A Skiff of Snow is available at Amazon, Smashwords, and other fine purveyors of cross-culturally informed erotica.

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Skiff-of-Snow-ebook/dp/B00AADCGUE

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/A-Skiff-of-Snow-ebook/dp/B00AADCGUE

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/256904

Sharazade is professional writer, editor, and consultant, with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. Not surprisingly, her stories tend to feature some aspect of travel–modes of transportation or exotic locales. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Find her on her blog at http://sharazade.com.

 
© 2018 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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